


With Your Feet On The Air (& Your Head On The Ground)

by allfifteenknuckles



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Angst, M/M, mentions of bipolar disorder, pre 5x08
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-06
Updated: 2015-03-06
Packaged: 2018-03-16 13:40:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3490346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allfifteenknuckles/pseuds/allfifteenknuckles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He hasn’t seen Mickey in days and just the scent of his citrus body wash and the cigarettes he must have chain-smoked all day makes Ian feel at ease. Mickey was his <i>home</i>, after all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	With Your Feet On The Air (& Your Head On The Ground)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [toasttomistakes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/toasttomistakes/gifts).



> Meh to [jannatzayn](http://jannatzayn.tumblr.com) for her shoddy betaing <3

"I don't hate you," Mickey tells him. _He_ **hates** _me. He should._ "Ian, are you listening to me?"

He doesn't want to listen. Everyone just talks over him. They decide things for him. They forget that he has a choice. _Does_ he have a choice? 

Mickey slides into the bed next to him, and it’s a tight fit. He gently puts a hand on Ian's chest as he turns to face Ian, as though he is asking for permission. Ian can't tell if this is suffocating or comforting, but he gives a slight nod. He hasn’t seen Mickey in days and just the scent of his citrus body wash and the cigarettes he must have chain-smoked all day makes Ian feel at ease. Mickey was his _home,_ after all. 

"I trust you. You know I do," Mickey tries again. _And that's really rich. I'm not even allowed to be alone with Yevgeny,_ Ian thinks to himself _. Fuck that, I'm not even allowed to be alone with_ **myself**. He can't help all these stupid thoughts running through his head. 

"I love you," Mickey whispers quietly, his breath hitching like he's scared. _He shouldn't. He shouldn’t be in love with me. I'm a wreck and I wreck everything around me._ This whole situation is such bullshit because he's been craving to hear these words for so long. And now they feel empty. And it sucks because even if Mickey feels it, he doesn’t. Not right now. Everything is just so numb.

"I'm not going to leave you," Mickey promises him. Mickey's lips trace his jaw and rest on his temple with a soft kiss _. He really_ **should** _leave me. But he really_ **shouldn’t** _leave me. Because I'm selfish. I've always been selfish. And I_ **want** _what I want and I still want him._  

Mickey gently shifts, digging himself further into Ian as he rests his head on Ian's chest. Ian is so tempted to run his fingers through Mickey's hair, and caress that stupid stubble that Mickey's been too lazy to shave. But he doesn’t even have the energy to lift his hands. He knows Mickey is looking for comfort, and that Mickey needs him to reaffirm that everything is going to be okay. That he's still _here_ and everything is fine. But that would be a lie.

"I'm not mad at you," Mickey lets him know. _He should be mad. I'm not a good person. I don’t_ **think**. _I do what I want, and if he's not mad, if he's not_ **livid _,_** _how do I get rid of all this guilt? If he doesn’t shout at me, doesn’t tell me how bad I am, then_ **how** _the fuck do I get rid of this drowning feeling in my chest?_

He grunts out an objection, and Mickey stares up at him. Ian can see the relief in his eyes as he realizes that Ian is listening. Mickey reaches out for his hand and locks their fingers together, and Ian gives him a squeeze because he needs Mickey to know that he's still here. Mickey just needs to fight a little harder.

"You're the best thing that's ever happened to me," Mickey says with a wry smile. _If I'm the best thing, then his life must be a fucking shit-show. Because_ **this** _is the furthest from the best thing anyone deserves. Mickey deserves more. He does. Someone better than a fucked-up redhead with no future. No fucking future. No dreams. Nothing._

"I _need_ you," Mickey whimpers pathetically. And Ian knows that's true. It's barely been four months and they are so entwined in each other that it is somewhat distressing. They're supposed to be a team, and right now Ian is completely failing to hold up his end of the bargain. But he's going to fix this. He will. 

"You're not Monica. You know that, right?" Mickey firmly states. Ian rolls his eyes at that. _Of course I'm not Monica. I **don't** have what she has. I'm not bipolar. I'm not a fucking nutcase. I would **never** abandon my family. I'm not a flight-risk. I'm responsible._

Ian slightly shivers and Mickey tries to bring up the blankets that are bunched up around their waist. He doesn’t know if it’s annoying or not. It's nice that Mickey cares, but it also sucks that no one thinks he's capable of caring for himself. He doesn’t need this. The constant coddling and the worried looks that everyone keeps sending his way.

"We all miss you, Ian," Mickey whispers as he leaves a soft kiss on the nape of Ian's neck. But those words make him flinch, and Mickey looks up inquisitively. _They all forgot to care about me when I went missing for three months. They'll forget again when it becomes inconvenient. Even Mickey._

"Have you taken your meds yet?" Mickey finally asks, when it seems like he's not getting another response from Ian. Ian just shrugs non-committedly. He doesn’t want the meds. He doesn’t need the meds. But he just doesn’t have it in him to fight everyone right now. He's so fucking _tired_.

His brain is so foggy and he can't _think._ Everything is so slow and everyone keeps on asking if he needs anything and all he wants is for people to _pause._ He's a fucking seventeen-year-old kid. He's supposed to be in love. 

"You're not a shit person," Mickey says with conviction. And that would be such a nice sentiment if all of Mickey's sweet, _sweet_ words didn't feel like fucking lies. Everyone was trying to placate him. Trying to _manipulate_ him. He's not a fucking porcelain doll. And he's _not_ broken. Even if everyone thinks he is.

If only he could get off these meds, then he could _prove_ it. He could tell Mickey he loves him too. Of _course_ he loves him. And it would be _real._

But Mickey slowly gets off the bed, and gets a glass of water along with the stupid pills that he's been prescribed. And there's just no way to say no. Not when Mickey is looking at him like that. As if these pills would _fix_ him.

**Author's Note:**

> If you want to throw apples (or roses) at me, come find me at [allfifteenknuckles.tumblr.com](http://allfifteenknuckles.tumblr.com)


End file.
